


Exotic Love

by Hellthera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellthera/pseuds/Hellthera
Summary: Jesse McCree comes back to a quiet town. Again. Why ?
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Exotic Love

It’s been a long time since I last was in that quiet town.

I don’t really have a home. I have itchy feet. And a job that keeps me from settling down somewhere for too long. But in this town, I almost feel at home. It is a safe place. A haven.

My car, like a faithful horse of old, seems to be finding the way on its own. I park, kill the engine, give the inside of the old Chevy a last look. My bag, with my gun in it, is in a secret compartment and nothing in the car would attract the attention of a thief. Of course, being just on this side of paranoia, I have a very small very modern gun slipped under my belt at the small of my back.

Out of the car, I lock it down while pulling a cigarette from my breast pocket and lighting it with an old Zippo. No cigars. My wherewithals are non-existent. Well almost. Until the money from the last job falls into my bank account, I’ll learn to live on air. So, cigarettes. And a glass of whiskey. Here, it might be rotgut, but as long as it has a good kick, I’ll take it. Then I can unwind.

When I reach the door, I take the last puff and bury the stub in the sand of the outside ashtray. No smoking in the house.

I feel shy all of a sudden. I take stock of my appearance. In the southwestern town, my cowboy attire doesn’t look too out of place. Even if the faded _serape_ and the hat are a bit much, they are still local.

I push the door open and get inside the warm house. I take a few steps inside and then I see him.

He has his back to me and the golden light from the late afternoon puts copper highlights in his midnight hair. His long straight midnight hair. My God I love that hair ! He tied it up with a green and gold silk sash that flutters with his every moves while his hair sways here and there.

Have I made a noise? He turns his head, giving me a coy look over his shoulder, and slowly bats his long silky eyelashes over his almond eyes. I feel hot.

He suddenly does an about-face, his long hair whipping in the air and settling down his back once more. My throat is a bit dry. I can’t swallow properly.

He takes a few steps forward, walking with the same deadly grace as one of the great cats. Boneless, accurate, purposeful. To me, he is like a black panther. Beautiful and deadly.

He stops and starts to unbutton his shirt, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his torso. I see an expanse of unmarred golden skin and well defined pecs.

The beast below my belt is waking up.

The shirt flutters to the ground in a pile of ivory silk. He moves with the grace of a dancer, showing off his figure, his muscles, his tattoo. Two blue Japanese dragons entwined around his muscular left arm. The art is exquisite.

Then, very very slowly, he unzips his pants. He is wearing very tight fitting black spandex pants that shine with the sheen of heavy silk satin.

My own pants are feeling one size too small, especially just below my belt. I rearrange the _serape_ to hide the unseemly bulge. Thank God for that lovely piece of Americana.

He turns again, showing off his muscular back, the wide shoulders and narrow hips. Then he almost gives me a heart-attack by leaning forward, bending only at the waist, and pulling his pants downs to his ankles, showing me a perfect ass with nothing but the thin strap of a G-string hiding between his two cheeks.

My pants are now two or three sizes too small and the slumbering beast is definitely awake. My throat is as dry as Death Valley at the peak of summer. I feel like my brain doesn’t get enough blood. Thinking is a challenge.

He turns again, showing his body off. Nothing vulgar, apart from the slight bulge that is not yet matching mine. His way of moving struts his stuff as if it was an afterthought. But all his muscles stand out on that perfect gold skin : abs, pecs, and their brothers… He has a magnificent body. And he knows it.

I walk forward, eyes glued to his stomach, just above the G-string, where the last pair of abs is nestled at the top of the most lovely V I have ever seen.

From my pocket I take a twenty credits note and slip it in the band of his G-string then I turn around and leave, my glass of local rotgut forgotten on the bar top.

I have a raging boner and I can’t think properly when I walk out of Monsieur Pierre’s, the only club in this town with male exotic dancers. The only reason why I come back to this town in the middle of nowhere.

I walk to my car with long raging strides, and sit behind the wheel as soon as I can. The heat inside is smothering, so I roll the driver’s window down. Told you the car was old. No A/C, no electric windows… No GPS or tracker. Paranoïd? Ah!

My erection is throbbing against my pants, demanding immediate release. What should I do? Jerk off in the car or go to the whorehouse to get a blowjob? None of these solutions are to my liking. I have been living like a monk for too long. I need more than just a quick release. Still, I can’t think straight, even if my dick is straight as a poker, pulling on the fabric of my pants.

I want to howl my frustration but instead I just pound the wheel a few times with my flesh hand. This is ridiculous! I am reduced to animality by my desires.

Aargh! I cross my arms on the wheel and lean my forehead on them, feeling sorry for myself. And with my dick being a, well, a dick.

I am so focused on being miserable that paranoid me fails to notice the shadow falling on me. It takes a knock on the roof of the Chevy to make me jump. I turn my head to my left, where the window would be.

The only thing I see is the top of a pair of faded blue jeans into which is tucked a black tee-shirt. I can’t help but notice, at eye level, that the buttons of the zip are straining to keep it shut.

I stare at it stupidly, so the owner of the jeans opens the door of the car and pulls me forcefully out of it. I scramble to get my legs under me, trying not to fall on my face, and my confusion gives time to my aggressor to push me against my car, lean against me and kiss me fiercely.

His taste, his smell, the sweetness of his lips are intoxicating and between that and my boner, I can’t think any more. Eyes closed, I dive into the kiss, inhaling his smell, losing myself in the scent of his hair, the softness of his skin. Somehow, my hands have found their way under his tee-shirt.

He is a little more composed than I am, which is why I don’t fuck him here and now, on the dusty parking lot of Monsieur Pierre’s.

He ends the kiss, making me yearn for more but he is strong, that lovely man from Japan.

\- I didn’t think you would be that shy, stranger.

His voice is like him, velvet and silk and tempered steel.

\- Jesse. Call me Jesse, I stammer.

\- Call me Hanzo, then.

He is holding my face between his two very strong hands.

\- I have waited for so long for you to talk to me and tell me your feelings, Jesse. What kept you?

\- You are so beautiful I felt like a bumbling fool next to you.

\- That you are, cowboy. But I happen to like that particular bumbling fool. Now, how about we finish what we started at my place?

* *

I have now another reason to come back to this quiet southwestern town.

A reason that calls me a bumbling fool, a stupid cowboy. A reason that forces me to have a good balanced diet and wants me to stop smoking. A reason with beautiful almond eyes and silky long black hair.

A reason that makes my heart swell with love and my dick swell with lust.

An exotic reason named Hanzo.


End file.
